


Inflicted Afflictions

by Scornful_truth



Series: Sweet Bloodied Smiles [4]
Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Angst, Crying, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Sadness, Self-Hatred, implied post-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 17:22:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21058142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scornful_truth/pseuds/Scornful_truth
Summary: Whumptober Prompt 15: ScarsOne day late. It's okay.





	Inflicted Afflictions

The sins that lay on the surface of his skin wouldn’t fade. Not completely, anyway. They were still a stark reminder of what his hand had been coaxed into. Matching and crisscrossing along with other marks that weren’t self-inflicted. The marks and stains that bled into his mind, ripped across his flesh in the same messed up dance.

Of course, the remedy that soothes the blinding ache that came with every blemish was always with him. Today was just an unlucky day. The relaxant to his pain was coming, but not yet here. So, to bide slow seconds, he steels himself under the deadlights of his room. Finding the coolness of the air comforting, at least to serve as a replacement until his beloved comes back.

He sat on the floor, his eyes shut with his head pressed against his knees. That was recently scrapped by a frustrated fueled passer-by who shoved him a bit too hard. He put on ducky covered band-aids to hide the angry red gashes, now no longer infected with dirt. Compliments of the soft hands that cared to clean the mild injury.

The memory was nice, but the thought of blood trickling down his shin wasn’t. The piercing nails of the ghosts carried in his haunting recollections dug into the back of his neck. Prompting him to hold his breath past his lung capacity. Whispering to him ideas of faded death, weaving sick imaginations into his mind.

Fake images of his body bursting under oxygen’s pressure flash through his head. All he could do to bear with it was raking his fingers through the carpeted floor harder. The fibers came loose and he fiddled with them as the bits of forced fantasy died down. Exhaling stiffly as it did so.

How could it be that inflicted agony of the past, could come roaring into earshot so far in the future? How could it defile the present with the soil of unclean words spat out in rage?

Again, the air hitches on the invisible notches in his throat. Clicking and turning into pale cheeks and wide eyes. It’s far past infuriating when these feelings of overwhelming waves crash down on him. Since he can’t help it. It comes when it pleases to retch its unfair emotion on him.

Or more accurately, it comes in a swirling mass of darkened fog. Rushing through the air and grabbing ahold of his secrets, dragging out its monstrous feelings by its hair as it kicks and screams. Representing how he acted on the wake-up day perfectly.

On a daily routine, he wakes up pitifully sad. With the urge to do things, gone. It doesn’t help that the one he loves is going through the same feelings. The same feelings of worthlessness and redundancy.

During the day, around the afternoon he usually dips into a molasses world of exhaustion. Typically he gives in, welcoming the hazy warmth that came with ignoring reality. Today he didn’t. Because of the burning sensation in his head. Because of the scorching turmoil biting under his skin. Bubbling up through once opened slits of flesh. Now with lighter-toned marks, a softer line, surrounded by toughness, he can abjectly admit those had been handmade.

It’s the feeling he deals with as another day falls to a silent close. The one that crawls into his mind like a plagued parasite. Festering on the rotting words he never said. Eating away at his heart until he doesn’t feel it anymore and scares himself into thinking he won’t ever feel again.

That’s when the familiar grip falls into his hand. On habit, his fingers would glide across the blade in numbed admiration. Before he’d turn it on himself, waiting for the drops of life to bleed through the sharp-tipped end. Waiting for his proof that he was truly alive. Seeing crimson red besides neon pink always relaxed him. He wishes it didn’t.

He hasn’t picked up that knife in four days. It’s pitiful how he counts it. Marking off the days he spent starved. Hungry for that feeling to explode into his heart again and surround him with something so irrefutable.

He exhaled slowly. He was drowning in this feeling, and every time he resurfaces to air he gets to breathe again. Otherwise, he’s under the water. Suffocating under fingers that weren’t there. Closing around his neck and constricting away the second life he never asked for. He didn’t deserve it.

Everyone kept calling it a gracious second chance. Something to use wisely to better the lives of others, so they don’t end up as his class did. All he sees is torture. Hell. A brutal excuse to let him live. As scared as he was, he was so ready to die. So, unfairly prepared to quit. The anger only rages on when others get frustrated and call him ungrateful. Immature. Wasteful.

He’s angry because, after all the agitation he swallowed, all the disarrayed reality, all he got was a ‘good job’ pat on the back and people screaming with soft voices, telling him it all wasn’t real. It was all a lie.

Now he has to heal his mental health, then he could get out and help Future Foundation. Even though he doesn’t want to. It was useless in his eyes. Help others so they don’t get murdered? Then wake up and have it be fake?

He rubbed his fingers in his eyes, tears were switching back and forth between coming and going. His breaths either came out too short or too long. The air felt too thin, and sometimes too thick. Panicking. He’s panicking.

He cupped his hands over his mouth and eyes. Leaning forward to gain control of his breathing. Muttering the facts he was told to recite when mentally deranged. Although it hates listening to it, it makes him sound so utterly brainless. He’s not brainless. He’s just in pain, upset about everyone abandoning him. Saying he should help others when he desperately wanted peace within his own life. Screw the little people who stayed future victims.

“_My name is Ouma Kokichi...”_

_“...I survived the 53rd killing game.”_

_“It wasn’t real.”_

Over and over, this sick mantra plays again, and again. It reverts his mind to the basics. Back to what’s true. Back to what’s not lying.

Yet his voice shakes over _“It wasn’t real.”_ Because it felt real. It all was very real. His pain, his plans, his friendships, his enemies. They weren’t fake. Or at least he hopes they weren’t.

When the door’s handle turns and the familiar click fills his ears, he knows he’s not alone anymore. Yet he can’t stop the words built for comfort that fell from his hushed lips. His hands catch the tears as his mind begged for the other to come closer.

The door shuts and the lights stay off. Soon those soft hands circled his back, curling around him to welcome a reassuring embrace. He leans into it the open arms, regrettably accepting the instant solaces.

His head finds its place under their chin. His aching body curled against them, resting against their chest and clutching onto their shirt. Those hands brushed through his hair, the same cool soft lips are found against his forehead, grazing his burning marked skin.

Kokichi wished they would yell at him as everyone had. To glare at him for his behavior, his actions, his words.

“...Sorry I wasn’t back soon enough.” They whispered, their voice broke across his mind, filling the air with breathable toxins he’d wisp away his consciousness on. Kokichi unhooked his hands from their shirt and reached up to wrap his arms around their neck. Saihara Shuichi was so kind, so, so gentle.

To have someone so beautiful like him, his low, soft voice soothed most headaches. His tender touch would ghost past his stains with intention and care. Those eyes would stare deep into his and see a sobbing child who was hit one too many times. That child was forced to grow up and now hid behind falsities and deceptions.

Now having that nurturing attention was thrilling. Kokichi drank in the touch of those fingers combing through his hair as his breathing evened out into paced exhales. Shuichi cradled him with no questions, with no plea for the gestures to be returned. His presence had shifted drastically the second golden hues struck him.

The feeling Shuichi presented was so overpowering that it hurt to register. Undeniable emotions bore through those eyes and occasionally spilled through his lips, sometimes even acting out on it. The pure unpruned love that Saihara Shuichi poured into his heart was choking him. He’d never live up to that. He was the shadow of a boy he could’ve been. But he wasn't, he was a failure and everyone knew it.

Soon that tender hand paused and drifted from his hair. Just briefly brushing against his cheek, as if clearing the area for a kiss to be placed there. “...You’re tired.” He said, looking up to the bed only feet from them. “...Want to talk about it or would you rather rest?”

Kokichi swallowed down his pitiful shames. “...lay with me…” He nearly begged. The closeness was reviving his heart and lifting it back up. The touch and the nearness of his breath chased away his daunting loneliness. “...Then, since I know you want me to… I can vent.”

He hated the way his arms dropped from their sanctuary-like hold. How Shuichi didn’t bother tugging him off the floor, instead just picking him up with lightness and ease. The way he rubbed Kokichi’s shoulder as he rested him on the bed shocked him into a state of awe. It was so unreal. Someone as enchanting and enrapturing as Saihara couldn’t possibly love and care so much, for someone as disgusting as him.

Ugly. Kokichi strongly believes he's ugly. Inside and out. So how could the purest angel touch a putrid demon of his kind? How could they carry no remorse? How could they pick up his burdens that tumbled out of his overflowing arms and carry them with a smile?

It just can’t be real.

That’s why the tears stayed. He hurt, but for a newer reason. He hurt because forgiveness felt so good. That the gaping hole in his chest filled up so quickly, burning it shut, and having Shuichi gladly sit there holding him together. Even when he’s done nothing to return such a favor. It’s love. It’s true unconditional love.

Shuichi settled next to him, his arms still open, his eyes glistened softly. Looking at Kokichi as if he was worth that something to look at.

Kokichi hated him. Which is why he sank into his touch, the adoration gravitating him here was just too jarring. Impossible to ignore. He rested his head against his chest. He didn’t know what was so fitting about his ear against his heart. The warmth and beating pattern would swell up inside him, forcing a smile of gratitude and infatuation.

“...I was thinking about it.” Kokichi whispered, his pale face froze as the reminiscent feelings started flooding in again. “...I wanted to. I… really, wanted to. Y-Yet I didn’t and I-...” _Felt completely broken._

“...I felt, disgusting.” He breathed. “...ugly, I’m just...ugly.” He’d place it with better words. Hideous, repulsive, grotesque. Unattractive. Shuichi was so considerate to spare him the loving glances. He was such a good liar, and Kokichi hated it.

Of course, the delicate, mellow hands caressed his wet cheek. Soon taking its place to sweep through his hair, lightly running his fingertips across his scalp, kissing his forehead, brushing down to his nose and softly grazing his lips. Wrapping a spell around his stolen breath and sealing it with protective kindheartedness.

Kokichi burns to a crisp at the intimate gesture every time. His mind revolting to a bundled mess, squeezing any sense of his brain and panicking into a constant scream of joy. Right after every high, hits the sameness of Shuichi’s kiss, the equal lips that comfort his own that had been gnawed on too much.

It’s the unity that’s compelled to churn in his stomach. The compulsory surge to kiss back whiplashes his mind into his hands wringing nervously around Shuichi’s shirt. Gaining grip, and conveying silently through soft breaths and hardly audible whines that he loves this, far, far too much. The tears were only his self-reproach. The harsh penitence that roamed his body.

Shuichi slowly, and graciously parts, leaving Kokichi’s lips unfilled. Yet somehow he could still feel them torch their message into his sore, thin skin. “...You’re beautiful.” Shuichi whispered, his hands left Kokichi once coddle head and instead held his small trembling frame. His previously burning flesh died down to a dull chill as Kokichi sighed in deep relief. He didn’t believe him, but it was so, so nice when he heard it.

“...You are a beautiful boy. You are thoughtful… you are caring too much for your own good. You worry when you shouldn’t. You feel what no one can. Kokichi, you are beautiful…” He whispered every forsaken word into his ear. Making sure not a sound escaped his hearing. “...You look angelic. Your eyes are the brightest thing in my life… Your smile is so sweet when it’s real. Your skin is as soft as any newborn rose petal.” He was so sappy. He was so stupid.

Kokichi clamped his eyes shut. It was what he needed to hear but he hated every second of the special feeling growing in his chest. The direct attention, for him and him alone. He’s not special. He’s not special.

“...You have a way with words that adds to your charm.” He added. “...You became my reason to stay, to stay here…” If he heard right, Shuichi’s voice shook. “...You aren’t ugly. You are beautiful, inside…” Kokichi’s heart beat faster as he told himself otherwise. Yet Shuichi’s kind, low voice breaks through his barriers. “...And out.”

Kokichi hated this lie. More than anything. He tore his head from Shuichi’s honest beating heart and held up his slaughtered wrists in front of his eyes. Making sure they saw his afflictions. “I’m...not!” he proclaimed, “...Beauty isn’t scarred. Beauty is pure like you… Beauty doesn’t go out of its way to d-destroy itself.”

He imagined Shuichi’s calm face to contort and crease with frustration. Yet, his fingers coiled around his healing slashed at wrists. Shuichi broke every unspoken rule. Daring to kiss his forbidden carved mistakes. As if he loved and cherished every flaw, hoping to erase all defects. Even if it meant he’d have to love every single fault, drowning it in passionate praise.

“...It’s battle scars.” Shuichi whispered against his palms. That had not been spared from the blade. “...To avoid succumbing to the fire that wants you dead, you keep the feeling at bay…” That fire he carefully speaks about, it hurts. It’s the flames that erode his flesh. The hot searing pain that burns his throat on off days.

“...I understand,” said Shuichi, as his lightweight finger traced every forced engraved sorrow. “...I did it too.” Kokichi knows he did, but he doesn’t now. The way those dim amber eyes glazed over his marks was so different.

Even before he knew Shuichi carried a sword crafted for his own complexion. The day Kokichi gave up on wearing his sleeves long, he openly let others stare, then look away in cold awareness. When Shuichi stared, he didn’t stare with wide eyes and wordless lips. He stared with eyes that carried compassion and commiseration.

He stared, and didn’t let his look flicker away. Somehow the feeling brooding in his chest had given way to open arms. On that day, Shuichi hugged him for a long, long time.

No words. Shuichi tended not to use them. Maybe it’s because he knows that they can be pointless. Asking, _“Are you okay?”_ Or just statements. _“That’s not a good habit.”_

Shuichi has never been guilty of saying those things. He knows Kokichi isn’t okay, much like when Shuichi himself was going through it. The best part was that he knows Kokichi knows it’s a bad habit. He knows. So why bother reminding him?

“...But you stopped.” Kokichi poorly fought. “...I can’t.”

Shuichi held his lips against the most recent flashy slit. “...I know.” He said softly. Kokichi wished Shuichi would deny him. Prove to him that he was wrong, that he could. “...I hope one day you do.”

“...Why.” He muttered. That hope was useless. Hadn’t Shuichi chosen despair in the game? Had he not accepted it and gave the world the largest middle finger ever?

“...because I love you,” Shuichi answered so simply, somehow he had crafted those simple words into hard truth. “...And seeing you in this pain hurts me. I know I can’t tell you to stop, I just hope you learn about other...ways to deal with the agony.” This time it’s Shuichi who’s eyes brim with tears.

Kokichi caught his breath before he could let it go. Shuichi was impossible. “...How did you..?” He spoke too breathlessly. He clamped his eyes shut to block Shuichi out of his mind. “...How did you… Stop?” Half of him knows the answer, the other half is empty to the knowledge.

Shuichi tucked Kokichi’s wrist into the embrace, closing what small gap they had between their sorrow-filled expressions, he kissed Kokichi’s closed eyes. Inviting him to let them open. And when he did, Shuichi kept his forehead against his. “...I strive to protect you. From the people who hate you. From the things, they did to you in the past. From the trauma, we know… My pain is healed by your smile. My pain is gone when you heal…”

He smiled. That damn smile. “...I just wish you’d realize how beautiful you are,”

Kokichi shook his head, crying as he denied it. He hated him. He hated him.

“...Even with all your scars.”


End file.
